


Priorities (and other such nonsense)

by Aja



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Ficlets, Limbo, M/M, Porn, Sharing a Bed, arthur expresses his feelings through interior design okay don't judge, creative limbo survival, idek, limbo's where the party's at, miscellany, stop me if you've heard this one before
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 07:03:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 6,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1848859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/pseuds/Aja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>limbo is awesome. arthur expresses his feelings through interior design and fanfic cliches. aja flails and cries a lot. idk tumblr fic? there's a pretty picture involved. // This has basically become a repository of numerous short ficlets and photo-based tumblr prompts, etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://bookshop.tumblr.com/post/87897870013) on Tumblr a little bit ago.

The first day they’re in limbo, Eames and Arthur build a bare-bones town square with an enormous clock tower in the center, to help them keep track of the time. The clock is digital, silently ticking off the time, the day, the year. Arthur develops an algorithm for tracking the estimated time up above, which displays in the center of the tower, a grim countdown that will budge once every three days or so; it’s probably far from perfect, but it’s the best they can do if they have a hope of staying sane.

The second day, they inscribe reminders into everything they built the day before: “Your names are Arthur and Eames,” reads the sandstone path to the beach. “This world is not real,” the foot of the clock tower admonishes.  ”You are asleep,” instructs the granite PASIV statue that Eames builds to remind them. “When this is all over, you will wake up.”

The third day, they build sand castles, which turn into a sand theme park, which turn into sitting on the beach and talking into the night while the tide erodes everything they built that day.

The fourth day, Arthur creates a house on the shore.

It’s exactly what Eames would have expected Arthur’s dream house to look like, cantilevered design, four separate wings divided into different functional focus, minimalist interiors, and a slick glass wall facing the sea. Eames can’t help but view the whole affair as decidedly lacking in personality—but he also suspects Arthur deliberately left the monochrome walls bare in order to give Eames a giant easel upon which to paint.

He would find it a charming overture of friendship, except for the hesitation that creeps into Arthur’s demeanour when they come to the fourth wing and the end of Eames’ tour. The cause is so unexpected that Eames laughs when he sees it. ”Darling,” he begins, and then stops for fear of embarrassing Arthur and ruining the whole tentative gesture.

Arthur has built their limbo house with only one bedroom.

If pressed, Arthur would probably say it’s more practical for them to stay together as much as possible, to keep from getting mistaken for projections or to help keep each other sane. Eames doesn’t press him.

Instead he hops onto the bed, mussing Arthur’s perfectly smoothed bedsheets and sinking into the luxurious pillows. Arthur huffs an exasperated huff, but relaxes infinitesimally. The unclenching of Arthur’s shoulders causes something tight and anxious inside of Eames to uncoil, too. It almost hurts Eames to look at him. The waning amber light glances off his cheekbones, and Eames realizes that Arthur is standing directly parallel with the setting sun.

"Four perpendicular wings," he says, working it out as he speaks. "This isn’t just a house. It’s a _compass_."

Arthur shrugs but looks pleased that Eames made the connection—as if Eames could have failed when Arthur’s brilliance is so blindingly, brilliantly on display down here, every perfectly executed angle and cobweb-free corner an example of his beautiful, pristine mind. 

Arthur’s tiny gasp when Eames cups his face and pulls him down to the bed undoes Eames more entirely than half a week in limbo ever could. He has to close his eyes for a moment just to remember how to breathe.

When he opens them again, Arthur is close, his hand clasping Eames’ wrist as he leans into Eames’ touch. He looks uncertain, as though even down here the fact of them is too much to bear. Up above, they have never been more than a shared secret, a thrum of mutual longing that’s worked its way into the core of who Eames is. But then, he supposes that’s what limbo is. 

He presses his lips delicately to the corner of Arthur’s mouth. It’s meant as a thank you, as a tentative promise, but Arthur chases him, drags him closer, winds his arms around Eames’ neck as though this is all part of the plan, as though Eames is as central to Arthur’s lost paradise as the sea spray and the high thread counts.

Eames has no idea how he has lived for years without owning the knowledge of Arthur smiling in mid-kiss.

"I claim this side," Eames says when they finally break apart, indicating the west-facing side of the bed.

Arthur snorts. “We’re going to be stuck here alone for the rest of time and we may never be mentally stable again. Priorities, Eames.” He’s smiling as he says it, however, and then he reaches up and traces the line of Eames’ jaw with his thumb.

Eames doesn’t bother telling him that on this side of the bed, the fading sun on Arthur’s face will be the last thing he sees each evening before he sleeps.

He thinks their priorities are in perfect order.


	2. brooklyn

Brooklyn looks good on you, Arthur thinks with a sudden lump in his throat.  _My city_  looks good on you. We could do NYC right, you and me.

What he says instead is: “Do you seriously get  _all_  your clothes from thrift stores?”

Eames puts on a wounded pout that Arthur doesn’t buy for a second. “I’ll have you know this is  _haute couture_ , designed by a friend of mine back in Soho. My Soho, not yours.”

It could be yours, Arthur thinks, and he doesn’t know what this feeling is, what to do with it, so he just rolls his eyes, says, “You would be friends with the only colorblind designer in London.”

But Eames just laughs, like he isn’t fooled at all, like he can tell what Arthur means is  _You look amazing and i want to devour you, I want to take you back to my flat and keep you there and then force feed you Nathan’s and pretentious Village cinema and draw glances from jealous passengers on the subway and hold hands with you in Central Park and keep you,_ and he’s still laughing as Arthur turns and stomps off in the direction of his favorite coffeehouse, like he knows that Arthur knows that he’ll follow.

 


	3. casual day

 

Some days Arthur rolls out of bed sleepy and well-shagged, with the sun wrapping itself around his shoulders, and he’s just like: Yeah, no tie today.

So he goes for the casual open collar. Cool, comfortable, fetching, laidback. And, bonus—he gets the additional satisfaction of seeing Eames distracted and nettled for the rest of the day, every time his eyes land on Arthur and then trail slowly down to Arthur’s collar.

"Problem?" Arthur says. He knows he’s smirking, but it’s a casual day, fuck it.

Eames grins, all teeth, and the flex of his jaw absolutely does not make Arthur want to push him against the wall and tongue his jugular.

"99, darling," Eames says, twisting in his chair so he can ogle Arthur straight-on, without turning his head every few seconds. "But your intermittent displays of wantonness definitely aren’t on the list."

"My—" Arthur blinks. "It’s a shirt, Eames."

Across the room, Yusuf snorts loudly. Arthur throws him a glare, but when he looks up Yusuf’s totally focused on the Somnacin vial.

"Absolutely  _wanton_ ,” Eames says again, his voice lower this time.

Arthur closes his eyes. Fine, he thinks. Wanton it is.

He opens them again and takes the couple of strides over and into Eames’ lap, legs just barely fitting on either side of Eames’ enormous thighs in his ridiculous lounge chair. He’s had practice, though, and when he shifts closer into Eames’ body, Eames looks up at him with shock written all over his perfect face.

"Casual day," Arthur says, and kisses him until Eames slides his mouth lower with a happy sigh, and Arthur can feel the warm rumble of Eames’ lips against his throat.

Definitely not wearing a tie tomorrow, Arthur thinks. In an Eamesless world, he knows this wouldn’t be a possibility. In an Eamesless world, Arthur knows he’d be suiting up every day—for what, exactly, he’s not even sure.

He trails his fingers through the day-old scruff of Eames’ chin as he drags him back up for another kiss. Yeah, he thinks. Definitely not wearing a tie tomorrow.

And maybe not ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. [This escalated quickly](http://bookshop.tumblr.com/post/25507279497) thanks to weatherfront.


	4. school days

"You really expected me to believe you went to Eton?" Arthur snorts as they walk back to the car.

Eames flashes him that quick, transparent grin, all teeth. “Well, darling, you’d never believe I went to Harrow, would you?”

Arthur huffs, annoyed that he can’t tell whether Eames is taking the piss or not. “Eames, I know your real name. I know it’s not—” He makes a face— “Jonathan Carrington Wyndham-Gloucester the Third. Jesus, where do you even come up with these things?”

Eames laughs. “Oh, but the Wyndham-Gloucesters are all on my mother’s side of the family, didn’t you realize?”

Arthur hesitates, suddenly unsure. Surely if Eames were actually the son of an Earl, Arthur would know it instinctively. He looks Eames over.

"I hate you," he pronounces, rolling his eyes and making a point of not holding the car door for Eames.

Eames laughs again and slides into the passenger seat. “For relative values of hate, darling,” he says, and rests his hand on Arthur’s thigh.


	5. shine bright like a diamond, arthur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah yes, the post that started my glorious tradition of hijacking perfectly innocent interior design posts on tumblr and using them for stupid inception fics.

Eames stops short in dismay when he walks into the warehouse. “Oh,  _Arthur_ ,” he says. “Cobb, you said you weren’t going to let him have a decorating budget this time!”

"Eames, you know what Arthur’s like when he gets it into his head to remodel," Cobb protests.

"Seriously," says Ariadne. "He gave me this whole ‘dreamshare is about creating spaces, therefore we need a  _creative space_ ' lecture.”

"Arthur," Eames says sternly. "Creative spaces need not involve chintz."

Arthur sniffs. “Hey,” he says. “That chintz was on sale.”


	6. Communication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IDK new tumblrfic I forgot about! Originally posted [here.](http://bookshop.tumblr.com/post/114270470023)

  


No one else talks to Arthur like this, louche mockery and schoolyard jibes and lecherous grins from a man who can be literally anyone in the world he wants to be but who won’t even bother not to slouch when he’s meeting the client, or lounge around in business meetings like they’re all members of a vaguely sleazy club instead of trained specialists in an extremely niche field in life-threatening situations.

And when Arthur says “I am impressed,” what he’s really trying to say is: “If I give you this, this one thing, will you for once stop being such a shithead and act like the brilliant professional I know you can occasionally be?" 

And when Eames answers, what he’s really saying, clearer than his suddenly precise consonants, is, "For you? Possibly, but you’ll have to work a lot harder than that.”

________

No one else talks to Eames like this, deliberately banal conversation warring with his hooded eyes and perturbed frowns, disdain punctuated by perfunctory glances and clipped sentences, no matter what Eames does. Eames knows by now, after all these years, that Arthur’s exaggerated annoyance is a form of self-protection, and that’s *fine,* really, because in the rare event that someone has the good sense to regard Eames as a high-risk anomaly, he’s not going to insult their intelligence by pretending he’s anything else. 

But as time goes on, he finds himself more and more annoyed in turn; Arthur’s aggrieved scowls and huffs of irritation are an itch somewhere Eames can’t quite reach, something that makes him want to dare to be exactly what Arthur thinks he isn't—something sincere, something permanent, something, dare he think it, *sure.* 

And when Arthur says, “Eames, I am impressed,” Eames knows he means just the opposite—that Arthur isn’t impressed at all, that he’s daring Eames to show him something actually useful for once. 

And when Eames answers, he can tell by the way Arthur’s eyes darken briefly that the real message has been received:  
“Oh, Arthur. Just you watch.”


	7. (this is not a ficlet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh my god why am i like [this.](http://bookshop.tumblr.com/post/112493828763)

Arthur wears a collar for Eames, and does so with a willingness that is breathtaking. Above stairs, on or off a job, he will go down on his knees with hardly any prompting, head bowed, eyes lowered, mouth pliant and ready to take whatever Eames gives him.

He loves it; he was made for this, made to slip into an endorphin high and murmur helpless words against Eames’ skin as Eames kisses him and manhandles him and uses him shamelessly. Eames sometimes wonders if he’s tried this sort of thing with other people or if all Arthur’s natural ability to slip into submissive mode is just well-disguised research. He tries not to dwell on it too much; he’s pretty sure a gorgeous, needy little sub like Arthur, who begged for the collar within only a few months of the two of them embarking on their excursions into BDSM play, needs the kind of attention only someone as thoroughly besotted as Eames is prepared to lavish on him.

Downstairs, however, it’s a different story. Arthur is nothing but focused when he’s under, whether it’s paid time or recreational. Eames can’t distract him at all in dreams, let alone when they’re working.

On the Inception job, he’s particularly single-minded. Even though he still wears the collar at all times, never takes it off while they’re together, in dreams Arthur keeps the collar well-hidden beneath his clothes. He bosses Eames around and eyerolls at any attempt Eames might make at seeming in charge. Even though he’s still willing to come to Eames’ bed night after night, voice reedy and full of pent-up anxiety after days spent getting reamed or by Cobb over some imagined slight, desperate for Eames to dominate him, when they’re under Eames can’t so much as raise his voice to Arthur.

In fact, by the time they’re a level under, getting shot at by Fischer’s militarized subconscious, Arthur’s own subconscious has totally erased the collar he normally wears beneath his clothes.

Eames has to admit it only makes sense; after all, this ain’t a scene, it’s a goddamn car chase.

 

 

(SORRY SORRY)


	8. Bosc Pears do not condone Saito/Arthur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one is at least not my fault.

“Oh, my god, Eames, it was one fruit basket,” Arthur hisses, blushing to the tips of his ears as he slams the laptop shut. 

“Yes, he was the basket and you were the fruit,” Eames says idly, chewing on his pen and swiveling his chair so the V of his legs are spread and angled away from Arthur.

“I can’t believe of all things you decided to filch from me you chose my Tumblr name,” Arthur says. He’s not going to kick Eames’ chair, he decides. He’ll go through Eames’ Copenhagen vault later and steal that little Pissarro Eames doesn’t know he knows about.

“Does Saito know your Tumblr name?” Eames asks.

“I bet if Saito knew my Tumblr name his asks wouldn’t be idiotic wastes of space,” Arthur says. He flips his moleskine open and jots down, _Call Saito. Heavy flirting on speaker, make sure Eames is eavesdropping_ to his to-do list.

When he looks back at Eames, Eames is smiling. “So you’re saying I’m your favorite,” he says.

Arthur rolls his eyes and draws an arrow indicating that the phone call to Saito is now his #1 priority. “I’m saying go profile those investors before I forget why I called you in on this job and leak your IP to the CIA.”

Eames returns with a thick, annotated file, tucked in a black binder whose solid lines and neat edges make Arthur momentarily nostalgic for an analog existence, another life where he gets by as an accountant surrounded by reams of paper and beautiful numeric columns. Atop the binder, Eames presents him with a crisp Bosc pear. His favorite.

Arthur hums. “Thank you, Eames,” he says, and supposes he can de-prioritize the phone call to Saito. 

The visit to Eames’ vault, though… maybe he’ll bump that up.

Maybe he’ll let Eames help him break in.


	9. Eames' life is not entirely facile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> found this in my phone notes, posted without context because i have none.

No one doesn’t give a fuck like Arthur doesn’t give a fuck. 

It’s in his whole body, his lack of fucks given—the tight stretch of his dress shirts across his thin shoulders when he crosses his arms in disapproval; the way his chest heaves and he breathes through his mouth when he’s sizing up a situation and deciding it’s officially FUBAR; the way the disdain slides off him in waves when he hands Eames the burner phone for a post-job payout on a job he’s truly hated working; the way he barely glances at Eames through hooded eyes when Eames says a half-hearted goodbye.

No, Arthur’s better at not giving a fuck than anyone Eames has ever seen; Eames has no idea why it bothers him so much, or why the amount of fucks he gives seems to be rising in inverse proportion to the amount of fucks Arthur clearly doesn’t.

Which, incidentally, is in inverse proportion again to the amount of fucking Eames would like to do.


	10. There's got to be a morning after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I didn't even remember writing this until someone dug it out of tumblr limbo today and replied to it, so thanks, youcantsaymylastname, for jogging my memory!
> 
> This was originally written in response to an anonymous Tumblr ask about A/E waking up together and posted [here](http://bookshop.tumblr.com/post/130381005333).

They’ve had a round of exhausting sex, up-all-night waking the people in the next hotel room kind of sex, the kind that has Arthur literally biting the pillow because his nerve endings are on fire and that has Eames unable to stop smirking afterwards because he’s the smuggest person alive after he makes Arthur come that many times, and, fuck, normally this is the part where Arthur runs his hand over Eames’ back one last time and then slips out of bed and puts his shirt back on and rolls up his shirtsleeves again while Eames tries not to watch pointedly, and then he slips as suavely as he can back out of Eames’ hotel room until the next night or the next week or the next season— whenever they get together to do this… thing that they do.

But it’s late and Arthur is tired and maybe he’s been thinking a little too hard lately and wanting a little too much, so this time when he goes to run his hand over Eames’ back the way he does, scritching his fingernails over Eames’ shoulder where he likes it best, over long-faded scars and faint moles and that one tattoo Arthur’s never asked about, he just… his hand just settles, and he turns it into a caress and finds himself sliding deeper into the covers. And Eames doesn’t say a word or even move, but Arthur feels his muscles tense, just slightly, and of course Arthur has a moment of sheer panic where he second-guesses every single life choice he has ever made and especially this one, but then Eames wriggles a little towards the opposite side of the bed and lifts the covers a little, and Arthur realizes he’s making room for him, and he thinks, oh, and scoots in towards Eames a little, and then they fall asleep like that, not quite touching, but not too far apart, either.

And it must be nice because when Arthur drifts awake the next morning he has one of those golden moments, the kind that take you back to childhood and the sensation of being warm and cozy and completely safe, completely cared for, and with something exciting and tingly to wake up for. Still coming out of sleep, he has this sensation that it’s a holiday, like Halloween or Hanukkah, but then he remembers where he is and it’s somehow even better, because he’s with Eames. Some part of him is like, shit, I’m so fucked, but mostly that part is totally chill like the rest of him because he is warm and his toes are toasty, and Eames is running his fingers gently through Arthur’s hair.

Arthur burrows into his pillow. “Don’t let me make you miss your flight,” he mumbles, not bothering to stifle a yawn even though he knows it makes him look really young and dorky and Eames will probably tease him endlessly and spend the next several years trying to get him to do it again.

Eames does pause in the act of petting Arthur’s hair, before he says, “Oh, no, not today. Not going anywhere when I’ve finally got a whole morning with you.” His voice is rumbly and hoarse, and this is what Eames sounds like first thing in the morning.

Arthur cracks one eye open. “Finally,” he repeats.

“No, you don’t, no pinning me to the wall before nine at least,” Eames says, but even with only one eye open Arthur knows wariness and hesitation on Eames’ face, knows so much about Eames’ face.

“Christ,” he says. “What time is it?”

“You mean you don’t come with your own built-in alarm clock?”

“Not when I’m GMT plus double digits,” Arthur says. “What’s your excuse?”

“Watching your dulcet face while you sleep,” Eames says. “Also I needed to take a whiz.”

“Romance isn’t dead,” says Arthur, and then, before he can think too hard about it, he leans in and kisses Eames, on the lips, softly, tugging his lower lip a little because he’s always suspected Eames likes it when he does. Eames tastes like toothpaste and Arthur has a moment of morning-breath-related guilt, but Eames just tugs him close and opens up for him like he wants it, wants all of it, wants all of Arthur, and that warm protected feeling twinges again in Arthur’s chest.

“What was that for?” Eames says after another moment.

“That’s so you don’t go anywhere until I wake up again,” says Arthur, sinking back down into his pillow.

“Arthur,” says Eames, in his favorite scandalized-by-Arthur-being-not-a-robot voice. “Are you going to sleep in?”

“Only if you sing me to sleep, sunshine,” Arthur says, mouth twisting a little.

Eames snorts and says, “There once was a girl from Havana…”

Arthur turns into the pillow and laughs softly. Eames resumes stroking his hair, dragging his fingertips down to rest against the back of Arthur’s neck.

“When you wake up again i’ll have breakfast for us,” he says. “Toast and marmite with coffee?”

“Bread and butter.“

“Bananas and nutella.”

“Frosted flakes and milk.”

“Done,” Eames says.

“But don’t think you can do this every time,” Arthur adds as sternly as he can while sinking down into heavenly sleep once again. “With the pampering and not getting on planes.”

“Every time?” Eames repeats, sounding odd for some reason. “Wouldn’t dream of it. No promises, darling, of course not.”

And Arthur knows Eames even when he’s mostly asleep and drifting away to dream, with the morning sun neatly blocked by Eames’ broad chest as he leans over him. Arthur thinks, liar, I can hear you making promises in your head _right now_ —and just before sleep takes him again, he decides that maybe, just this once, that’s okay.


	11. Gunplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I JUST KEEP FINDING NEW OLD FICLETS I'VE WRITTEN STASHED AWAY IN RANDOM PLACES, IDK how are there so many idk idk thank you for indulging me

Eames is gun-fucking Arthur with his finger just on the outside of the trigger frame, not actually _on_ the trigger, just stroking the rim outside of it.

And Arthur, with his lips all swollen, wanting him to put his finger on the trigger and cock it, because that gives him the biggest fucking rush; except Eames is just like, "wait for it, pet," and all he does is slide the gun further down Arthur's throat, and Arthur has to take it and wait and brace against the cold metal tang, and Eeames is just watching him and still stroking the bottom of the gun with his fingers, and Arthur is just. so. fucking. hard.

And is it really wrong when Arthur fucking loves it so much? And when Eames is just watching him and his swollen lips almost tenderly, like he really would be happy to be gentler, except he knows what it does to Arthur when Eames takes his chin and grips it and forces his mouth open wider so he can shove the barrel further down his throat? Because even though the metal clacks against his teeth and Eames slides the sharp edge painfully against the inside of Arthur's cheek, even though Arthur nearly chokes and has to clench his fists not to gag, to force himself to breathe through his nose, he gets higher than anything else when he's on his knees just like this clutching Eames' thighs--higher even than free-falling out of a dream.

Because Eames is making Arthur fuck his Walther like it's no big deal.

Like he could make Arthur do anything he fucking wanted, whenever he wanted.

And when he's just sitting like this, legs parted on the edge of the bed, like Arthur's a fucking science experiment and he's casually interested in the results; when the only thing that tells Arthur he's not fucking up right now is the way Eames' cock is straining toward Arthur through his pressed trousers; when the only sound that leaves Eames' lips is a calm, unaffected, "Good boy," and the only way Arthur can tell what's going on in Eames head is the fact that Eames is also having trouble remembering to breathe; and when Eames finally, _finally_ puts his hand on the trigger and cocks the gun, says fondly, "Time to wake up, darling," with his fingers brushing Arthur's lips because that's how much of the gun Arthur's managed to take down his swollen, agonized throat, and leans forward —

well. That's the moment, right before he closes his eyes and waits for the kick, when Arthur thinks he just might be willing to give Eames whatever he wants, whenever he wants, any way he wants.

 

(Being held at gunpoint is just a bonus.)


	12. Cuddlebears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally written for angelgazing's cuddling meme waaay back in 2010, and apparently there was a giant teddy bear involved that looked just like this one except the t-shirt originally read "Kenya the Ninja!"

Eames brings her a teddy bear from Mombasa.

Ariadne sets it beside her on her desk and takes it to every meeting. Kenya the Ninja helps her plan labyrinths and design dual-folding cityscapes, and she tells a beaming Eames that he's helped her double her workplace productivity.

"Plus," she adds, "unlike Arthur he doesn't nitpick."

Eames beams even more widely at that, while Arthur scowls.

Eames looks over at him. Then he says, "Ariadne, I have a theory," and takes Kenya the Ninja off her desk.

He cuddles it, then holds it speculatively up to his ear and listens to whatever Kenya the Ninja has to say. Arthur's scowl sharpens.

"Really?" says Eames to the bear. "You know, I was just thinking the same thing." He gives it a good, long hug, crushing the plush fur against his ridiculously massive chest. Ariadne takes the opportunity to appreciate the muscles in his forearms. Arthur takes the opportunity to glare in open disgust. 

"Mmmm," says Eames, stroking the top of the bear's head. It kinda sounds pornographic.

Arthur rolls his eyes before turning away and muttering about needing to go and Google things before he vomits.

Eames hands the bear back. Ariadne obligingly takes him and pats him on the head. "Arthur, are you jealous?" Eames asks.

"What?" says Arthur, who's rolled his fancy ergonomic chair back over to his own work space and is now refusing to look up.

"I think you are," says Eames delightedly. "I think you're jealous of Kenya the Ninja."

"I think you'd look good in a straitjacket, but we can't all have our whims humored," says Arthur.

"Darling," says Eames, rolling over to Arthur's side, and then his voice shifts lower. "You know I'd humor any whim you dreamed up."

Arthur's hands still, one on his keyboard and one on his mouse. He doesn't look up, but for a moment Ariadne can read him plainer than if he'd just googled 'How to keep from losing your heart to hunky British tossers.'

"And you know," Eames says, leaning in, "I'll be more than happy to coddle you however you want."

And then Eames snakes his arms around Arthur's waist, tugs him close, and nuzzles his neck, and Arthur snaps rigid in his arms for all of half a moment before he relaxes and sinks into the hug, lifting his chin to give Eames a better angle to mouth kisses over his jawline, and Ariadne thinks, 'wow, um, wow,' and scrambles up and darts into the restroom to give them a private moment. She waits there, feeling awkward and more than a little discombobulated, until the faint sounds of rustling fabric and occasional hitched breaths have stopped and she gathers it's probably safe to go out.

When she comes back, Eames is still tucked up against Arthur, one broad hand splayed loosely on his thigh, head resting against Arthur's shoulder while they talk. Arthur is gesturing at the computer monitor, and but for the way his right hand is carding through Eames' hair while he talks, there's no difference in his demeanor whatsoever.

And then Ariadne realizes:

Kenya the Ninja is sitting on Arthur's other thigh, being thoroughly and lasciviously cuddled.


	13. Vote-rigging (a Hit Record production)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe is good at the internet. (feat. Zooey Deschanel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idek there was some online actor popularity poll where Tom Hardy got beaten by Merlin fans spamming for Bradley James and Colin Morgan, lol, and I wrote this? IDEK IT WAS 6 YEARS AGO.

Joseph hits F5 again, and thanks to the fact he's saddled with slow wireless (he's not really one for touting his celebrity, but come on, he's a movie star, slow wireless is not something he should have to put up with!) he has time to chew off the edge of another fingernail before the page finishes loading in all its high-res glory.

Fuck. Still in 7th place. Fuck.

He smooths a hand over his face. It's fine. It's fine. 

He checks his agenda in case he has anything upcoming he's forgotten about, but it still shows a free schedule, nowhere he needs to be before Thursday's Spin photoshoot.

He settles back and takes a long sip on his latte.

Then he clicks the familiar icon beside "eamesmeupscotty" and clicks "logout."

He's got this. 

He's just finished creating his eighteenth account when Zooey returns from the counter with her espresso and peeks over his shoulder.

It probably says something about the quality of his life that she doesn't even react. She just pats him on the head and says, "You could just ask him out."

"I'm not going out with anyone who's less hot than Jon Hamm," Joseph mutters, furiously opening tabs and wondering if it'd be worth it to download that extension that lets you have multiple simultaneous logins.

"So, 99.8% of the known univ—"

"Shush, I'm voting."

Zooey grins. "You know he's in Vancouver right now, yeah?"

Joseph pointedly doesn't look up. He's up to fifth place. _Stick to clay, Nadal, you're outclassed here_ , he thinks with a vicious satisfaction. "Relevance?"

"So, we should go pay Emily a visit. And you can swing by the set."

Joseph tries to make a noncommittal sound of non-encouragement. It comes out a little more committal. And also sounding a little like, "When do we leave?"

Zooey lets out a belly laugh. "God, Joe, you're so adorable when you're in love."

Joseph fails at flushing. "I just don't like seeing the clear winner fall prey to political manipulation." He's starting to feel a little guilty, though. He exits out of the comment he was composing to ask hermette to make a Tom Hardy love meme to rally more voters. 

"And by political manipulation you mean the—" Zooey leans over and checks his screen— "the four hundred and thirteen fangirl votes currently standing between him and Colin Morgan."

Joseph scowls at the screen and comforts himself with the knowledge that if those fangirls had seen Tom's snaggletoothed grin in person that margin would be in the opposite direction. He thinks of being on-set in a few hours, wondering if Tom will show all his teeth when he sees him, or if Joseph will have to pry it out of him slowly, when they're alone. 

He shuts the laptop, already planning how he'll make Tom smile. "Yeah, well," he says. "Bradley James probably has sockpuppets of his own."


	14. a kiss is just a kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ahaha forced kissing. FAVE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think this was written for foxxcub's kissing meme.

The silence stretches on until it skips awkward altogether and lands on torturous. It lasts and lasts while Arthur stands totally rigid and unmoving, until Eames snaps, "Oh, for god's sake, Arthur, it's just a stupid tradition," and hauls him in.  
  
He means for it to be the open-mouthed equivalent of a slap, because that's what it _feels_ like. Arthur couldn't have rejected all Eames's unvoiced overtures any more clearly if he'd scripted this, from the party to the alcohol, to the two of them getting caught between their own stilted conversation and Ariadne's well-meaning interference as she dragged them into the doorway.  
  
But instead his mouth meets Arthur's and he's instantly helplessly awash in the warmth of Arthur's mouth, and his wassail-soaked tongue, and the way Arthur shuts his eyes and tilts his head forward and sighs into Eames' mouth like he _wants_ to be right where he is, like he just can't _help_ himself. Eames shifts and lets Arthur slide right into him, and suddenly everything is bright-hot and Eames' lips are buzzing, and he lets himself taste the corners of Arthur's lips, and Arthur _leans in for more_ , and--  
  
and then, and _then_ , just as Eames' brain has caught up to the fact that Arthur is _kissing back_ , the asshole breaks away.  
  
He looks over Eames' left ear to a point behind his head, and swallows, and Eames stares because they were just _kissing_ and Arthur was _kissing back_ \--and because now Arthur looks utterly wrecked.  
  
"No," he says, and he's obviously trying to sound curt, but he only ends up sounding as unsteady as he looks. "It isn't _just_ anything."  
  
Then he walks away and leaves Eames standing under the mistletoe.


	15. Arthur and Eames (make the worst drunks ever)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Eames make the worst silliest sluttiest drunks ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot even believe I have discovered _another_ one of these dumb ancient lost inception crack ficlets to stash here. Thank you all for putting up with me /o\ where do they keep coming from?!!!!!!!

"FUCK," Eames says loudly, pausing with his hand halfway down the front of Arthur's trou. "How did we even get here?" He stands up and says again, "Arthur. ARTHUR. I don't remember how we got here."  
  
"'Cause we're FUCKING DRUNK, jesus, you moron," Arthur says. "Fuck me already and shut up."  
  
"But if we're in a dream--"  
  
"Oh, come the fuck on," Arthur says, and tips Eames lazily over onto the hotel bed. Eames sags against the pillow with a pained look on his face, but cocks his head to watch Arthur with lewd interest. He's totally uncoordinated but still manages to wrench off his clothes somehow; getting Eames' pants off is a different deal 'cause he won't stop flailing.  
  
"I'm never doing this with you again," Arthur mutters, finally tugging Eames' jeans down over the rise of his hips.  
  
"S'what you always say, darlin'," Eames slurs, and Arthur grins before he can help himself.

"Not the sex," he says, sliding his hands over Eames' thighs. "The drinking."  
  
"Oh," says Eames. "Fuck that," says Eames. "Suck me and then let me fuck you," and he yanks Arthur's head down to his erection. It's hot and sweaty and Arthur's head is spinning, and Eames' pre-come tastes a little like 40-proof, but he's too drunk to care. He swirls his tongue over it lazily, and he's several minutes in when he realizes he's lost all track of time and he's forgotten he was supposed to be sucking Eames's cock instead languidly flicking his tongue over it through a haze of vague admiration. "Fuck you, this is the worst head ever," Eames giggles, and Arthur laughs around Eames head.  
  
"You know," he says as Eames pulls him away and drags him up for a kiss, "you have a lovely dick, Eames. I'll never tell you that again."  
  
"Oh, my god, shut up, shut up right now before this turns into one of those fanfics where we wake up married," Eames says, and hooks his leg around Arthur's calf to unbalance him completely. Arthur loses track of gravity and lets Eames flip him over, head swimming when it hits the pillow.  
  
"What fanfic," he mumbles, and Eames mutters, "Oh, like you don't know," and kisses him.  
  
It's a sloppy, drunken kiss, and Arthur really thought he was too drunk to get a proper erection, but Eames' tongue is a thing of magic at any time, and Arthur lets him tongue-fuck his mouth, dirty and sweet, his fingers gripping Arthur's shoulders like he thinks Arthur might float away if he doesn't.  
  
Of course, when they finally break apart, Arthur actually does start to float away. "Huh," he says.  
  
"I _told_ you, you idiot!" Eames shrieks, bumping his head on the ceiling. "Now whose dream are we even in? Do you even know? Because I sure as fuck don't."  
  
"Can you just _relax_?" Arthur says.  
  
There's a moment of gravity-free silence where Eames stares at him.  
  
"Just for that," Eames says, "I'm going to fuck you until we get the Kick."  
  
"How the hell are we going to fuck while weightless _and_ drunk," Arthur snaps.  
  
Eames blinks.  
  
"We can improvise, darling," he grins, and Arthur says, "Never, _never_ drinking with you again," as Eames pulls him over for another kiss.


End file.
